“Please don’t cry,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “It will be all right. I promise, everything will be all right.”

He felt her nod against his chest, a tiny little movement, but one that somehow was enough to tell him that she had turned a corner. “You see,” he said, touching her chin and smiling when she finally raised her eyes to his, “I told you, it’s all right.”

She took a shaky breath. “I was worried about you.”

“You were worried?” He hadn’t meant to sound pleased, but he couldn’t help it.

“And angry,” she continued.

“I know.”

“You left,” she said baldly.

“I know.” He wasn’t going to make excuses. She deserved better.

“Why?” she asked him. And when he did not reply she stepped out of his embrace and said it again. “Why did you leave?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said regretfully.

“Were you with her?”

He did not pretend to misunderstand. “Only briefly.”

There was but one three-pronged candelabra in the room, but there was light enough for George to see the pain flash across Billie’s face. She swallowed, the motion trembling through her throat.

But the way she was standing, with her arms wrapped protectively around her waist… She might as well have donned a suit of armor.

“I will not lie to you,” he said quietly. “I may not be able to answer your questions, but I will tell you no falsehoods.” He stepped forward, his eyes boring into hers as he made his vow. “Do you understand? I will never lie to you.”

She nodded, and he saw something change in her face. Her eyes grew softer, more concerned. “You’re hurt,” she said.

“Not very much.”

“But still…” She reached toward his face, her hand stopping an inch short of its destination. “Did someone hit you?”

He shook his head. He’d probably acquired the abrasion when he’d been persuaded to have a pint with Tallywhite. “I don’t remember, honestly,” he told her. “It was a very strange evening.”

Her lips parted, and he could tell she wanted to question him further, but instead she said, very softly, “You never danced with me.”

His eyes met hers. “I regret that.”

“I’d wanted… I’d hoped…” Her lips pressed together as she swallowed, and he realized he was holding his breath, waiting for her to continue. “I don’t think…”

Whatever it was, she could not bring herself to say it, and he realized that he needed to be as brave as she was.

“It was agony,” he whispered.

She looked up, startled.

He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to tell Freddie Coventry to go ahead and dance with you? What it felt like to watch him take your hand and whisper in your ear like he had a right to be near you?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I know it exactly.”

And then, in that moment, it all became clear. There was only one thing he could do.

He did the only thing he could do.

He kissed her.

Chapter 23

Billie wasn’t stupid. She had known, when she decided to wait for George in his bedroom, that this might happen. But it wasn’t why she had done it. It wasn’t why she had crept so silently into his room, turning the door handle with practiced ease so it slipped through the locking mechanism without a click. It wasn’t why she’d sat in his chair, listening for sounds of his return, and it wasn’t why she had stared at his bed the whole time, achingly aware that this was where he slept, where his body lay at his most vulnerable, where, should he take a wife, they would make love.

No, she told herself, she had come to his room because she needed to know where he’d gone, why he’d left her at Wintour House. And she was worried. She knew she would not sleep until he was home.

But she’d known this might happen.

And now that it was happening…

She could finally admit that she’d wanted it all along.

He pulled her against him, and she made no show of surprise, no feigned outrage. They were too honest with each other; they always had been, and she threw her arms around him, kissing him back with every fevered breath.

It was like the first time he’d kissed her, but it was so much more. His hands were everywhere, and her dressing gown was thin, the material far more silky and fine than her day dress. When he cupped her bottom, she felt every finger, squeezing her with a desperation that made her heart sing.

He wasn’t treating her like a china doll. He was treating her like a woman, and she loved it.

His body pressed against hers, length to length, she felt his arousal, hard and insistent. She had done this to him. Her. Billie Bridgerton. She was driving George Rokesby wild with desire, and it was thrilling. And it made her bold.

She wanted to nibble at his ear, lick the salt from his skin. She wanted to listen to the way his breath quickened when she arched her body against his, and wanted to know the exact shape of his mouth, not by sight but by feel.

She wanted all of him, and she wanted him in every possible way.

“George,” she moaned, loving the sound of his name on her lips. She said it again, and then again, using it to punctuate every kiss. How had she ever thought that this man was stiff and unyielding? The way he was kissing her was heat personified. It was as if he wanted to devour her, consume her.

Possess her.

And Billie, who had never much liked letting anyone take charge, found she rather wanted him to succeed.